


They say there's a doorway from heart to heart

by sirona



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the pubs in all of England, the handsome stranger has to walk into Joe's. Funny thing is, even if his mind is drawing a blank, Joe's body tells him he ought to know this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They say there's a doorway from heart to heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hungerpunch, for dream_holiday over on LJ. They asked for something that wrenches the heart a bit but then fluffs it up and makes it better by the end. Title from a quote by Rumi. Extra special thanks to my SuperBeta zolac_no_miko for fantastic nit-picking and niggling at this until it made sense.

It's an unexpectedly slow night, what with it being a week off the start of the Olympic games. The past few days have seen Dream Bigger hopping with people from every conceivable country, all of them chatting in a strange mixture of their own language and English with everyone else, content to socialise until the live music act of the night gets up on stage. Joe has been quite pleasantly surprised to see people stick around for that -- it was probably because the people he asks around to play are a strange hodge-podge of different nationalities and music styles. The other night he had Indi Zara around, and last week it had been Mor Karbassi, both gorgeous women with incredible voices singing earthy yet haunting music. It had been a huge hit, if he said so himself.

Tonight is the one night a week when there's no live music, just slow, lilting jazz filling the air and soothing ragged Monday blues. The Saint Martins students are back again, drinking half-pint Stellas and scribbling in a huge sketchbook that seemingly got passed around rather than belonging to anyone. In the other corner sit the two ladies who staff the second-hand bookshop one street over; it's glasses of Rosé for them, and it warms Joe's heart to see their hands brush surreptitiously over the top of the table, the glances they shoot each other from under half-lowered eyelashes. He's always tried to run a friendly pub; the rainbow sticker by the front door had been the first thing he stuck there, even before the opening times. Over the fourteen months he's had this place, he's gotten to know the regulars, all of them converging on his little pub from the vicinity of Saint Martins University and various and sundry small shops around the neighbourhood.

The doorbell jangles and a gust of cool wind pushes its way inside the pub, much cooler than a mid-July breeze should by all rights be. A man enters, suit sharp where it hugs his narrow shoulders, wraps his lean torso. He shudders a little at the change in temperature, unfolds like he's been holding himself stiff for hours and now he can finally let himself relax. Joe trails an appreciative eye over him, lingering indulgently over the man's long, long legs and the line of his back as he twists to survey the bar. He has a lovely face, by no means classically beautiful but nonetheless intriguing, possessing an allure of its own. Then the man turns to the bar and notices Joe for the first time. Joe wishes he had a cleaning cloth in his hands, a glass, anything. It's a surprise to feel this nervous, but there's a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that this is someone important, someone he should know, even though he is quite certain he hasn't seen the man before -- not since he woke up in the hospital, anyway. The doctors had said he might eventually regain some of his lost memory, but up till now there hasn't even been an inkling. Nevertheless, he is--intrigued, yes.

The man watches him intently, and Joe tells himself he imagined the way the man started ever so slightly when he first saw Joe behind the bar. The man hadn't moved, or squinted, or looked in any way shocked. It's probably Joe's imagination. He's been told more than once that it's way overactive.

"Hello," the man says, walking purposefully towards the bar and lifting himself onto a stool, effortlessly graceful. His eyes never leave Joe, not even to check he's not about to sit on thin air.

"Evening," Joe answers, smiling slightly. "What can I do you for?" he asks, letting just the right amount of suggestion enter his voice. The man's gaze focuses, but after a moment he seems to deflate a little, even though his posture never changes.

"Ballantine's, neat," he answers. His voice is ever so slightly husky under the polished smoothness of his American accent.

"Right you are," Joe says cheerfully, and turns to the back of the bar.

Or tries to. When he can't move, he looks down, noting with a kind of detached surprise that his hands are gripping the shelves behind the counter so hard that his knuckles have turned white, and the metal edges are digging into his palms a little. _Huh,_ he thinks.

He makes himself let go, finger by finger, and looks up to see the man regarding him with narrowed eyes. Joe stares at his face, close enough now that he can see the faint wrinkles at the corners of the man's eyes, the bruised skin under them that suggests far too many sleepless nights, the tightening of the man's fine mouth.

"I'm sorry, do I--" he stops, huffing in frustration. "Should I know you?" he amends, feeling the latent fury in the back of his mind all over again.

The man's mouth tightens further, and his eyes grow shuttered. "No, I suppose not."

Joe doesn't buy it for a second. He stalls, though, turning to the shelf of drinks at his back and pouring the stranger a double shot of Ballantine's, expertly sliding a napkin underneath when he places it in front of him at the bar. The silence stretches as the man takes the glass and lifts it to his mouth, takes a large swallow.

Joe often wonders what kind of man he must have been before he forgot every single thing about who he was, but since that horrible night when he'd first opened his eyes to this world, patience hasn't been his strong suit, and neither has playing the waiting game.

"All right, out with it. You obviously know who I am, even if I haven't the faintest who you are. Sorry about that," he drawls, voice heavy with sarcasm and a hint of bitterness as he taps his temple with his right hand. "I'm afraid my mind is a bit of a blank for things older than a year and a half."

The man's face smooths over, carefully blank like a lake of still water. "I see," he says quietly.

Joe waits him out a bit more, then sticks a hand out. "Joe Smith. At least that's what I'm used to being called nowadays."

"Arthur," the man says, taking his hand carefully. His voice is steady, but there's a tremor in it that Joe doesn't think he's supposed to have pinpointed. Arthur's fingers are long, thin but strong as they cover Joe's hand. Fine shivers break out all over Joe's body, and his heartbeat quickens. It scares him half to death; he has no idea why this stranger's touch induces a more powerful reaction in him than anything else in the time since he woke up.

"Pleased to meet you, Arthur," Joe says. His own voice is shaking, and there's an echo in his head, _Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur. Thank you._ He can't remember ever having said those words, but they are as familiar to him as breathing.

And then the stranger--Arthur--smiles, and Joe's knees honest-to-god threaten to give, it's ridiculous, how is this even possible, who _is_ this man?

It's an uphill struggle, making himself drop Arthur's hand. After another moment of assessing him shrewdly, Arthur leaves his half-full drink on top of the bar and pushes back. Joe watches in surprise as Arthur has to grip the wooden ledge to steady himself, as if his legs suddenly can't hold him. He doesn't look or smell drunk, however; Joe would be able to tell. He always could, no matter how a person behaved.

"Excuse me a moment, Joe. I'll be right back," Arthur says. It should be strange -- Joe has only just met him, and certainly Arthur should feel no need to excuse himself to him -- but, inexplicably, it isn't.

No, it's the most natural thing in the world to nod and smile at him, catch his eyes and watch them crinkle as Arthur smiles back, feel a curious warmth spreading through him out of nowhere.

Arthur heads for the door, fishing around in the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a phone as he steps out of the pub. Joe watches him hunch his shoulders against the chill as he dials and puts the phone to his ear.

He's still watching when the familiar shape of Eddie, the cabbie who lives three houses down, pushes his way through the front door, sidestepping Arthur politely.

"--Found him, yes. ...Yusuf, who do you think you're talking to? I _know_ it's Eames, okay--"

The door slams shut behind Eddie and cuts off the faint sound of Arthur's voice over the music. Eddie nods amiably at him, but Joe can barely return it, blasted as he is with another shadow of recollection, _Go to sleep, Mr Eames,_ unmistakably Arthur's voice in his ear.

"All right there, Joe? You look like you've seen a ghost," Eddie says jovially, leaning down from his 6'3'' height to look at Joe's face.

"Sorry, Eddie. No, I'm fine. Pint of bitter?"

"Please," Eddie rumbles, passing him a fiver. Joe draws the pint and rings him up, dropping 20p into his huge hand.

"Cheers," Eddie says, saluting him with the pint. Joe just about manages a smile, confusion and a strange fear flat-out blanketing his mind to anything that isn't the pounding of his heart in his ears, the way his eyes strain to keep Arthur in sight through the small stained glass window of the door, even though he has no idea why.

Arthur comes back just then, slipping the sleek phone back in his pocket and reclaiming his place at the bar. "Sorry about that," he says.

"'S all right," Joe answers automatically, even though it isn't, not really. "Now, where were we?" Dramatic pause. "Oh yes, you were going to tell me where I'm supposed to know you from." He narrows his eyes at Arthur. He's not letting him take even a single step away, not before he tells Joe what he needs to know.

And just like that it hits him -- this guy, Arthur, if that's even his real name ( _it is_ , his mind says, and how does it know that?!), Arthur knows who he is. He can tell him who he is, because it sure as hell ain't Joe Smith, Londoner, preternaturally proficient gambler with fingers swift enough to earn him this pub, the flat above it, a place to work and live while he finds his way after what happened to him.

Arthur smiles, a quick twist of the lips that still manages to look sad for no reason that Joe can distinguish. "If that's what you want," Arthur says placidly.

" _Yes_ , it's what I want, why wouldn't it be?" Joe growls, beyond impatient. Arthur _knows_ , and Joe needs it like he needs to breathe.

Arthur remains impassive. "What if I told you that yes, I can tell you who you are. But that means coming to terms with a few uncomfortable truths about yourself. Would you still want to know?"

Joe opens his mouth, but Arthur holds up a hand. Surprisingly, Joe finds himself heeding the warning. "Think about this. You have the chance to build a new life for yourself, one that has nothing to do with the past. I'll go away, and you never have to see me again."

Arthur pauses and swallows, like the words hurt him somehow, but his resolute expression doesn't change. "Just be sure, E--Joe."

Joe looks at him, catalogues his body language and facial expression, until words like 'sadness', 'guilt', 'hope', 'longing' filter into his mind without explanation. He just _knows_ , looking at this man, what he's thinking. And that's not a skill that can be acquired just like that. Or at all legally.

"Have I killed anyone?"

Arthur looks taken aback, eyebrows rising. "Not--technically, no."

"How can I not technically have killed anyone?"

Arthur sighs in frustration. "I can't explain without telling you the rest of it."

Huh. "All right. Am I an internationally wanted criminal?"

Arthur looks pained this time. "Only in some places?" he tries. Joe frowns, feeling a headache coming on. Bloody hell.

Right. Okay. He's a somewhat-internationally-wanted criminal, and may or may not have killed people before. He speaks eight languages that he has found out about, can school his face to resemble any one of the people inside this room, and can cheat his way through a game of poker without anyone being the wiser. How's he doing so far? James Bond isn't the least of it.

On the other hand, he is reasonably wealthy right now, has his own pub with a regular clientele, and he can easily see himself spending the rest of his days here, in peace.

...Which sounds almost terminally boring. And it won't have Arthur in it, and whoever, whatever Arthur is--was--means to him, it's not to be taken lightly, judging by his body's reaction to the man.

Ah, fuck it. He never liked this life much anyway.

"Yes. I want to know."

Arthur watches him carefully, brown eyes boring through layer after layer of Joe's being, until at last he shrugs and looks away, somehow seeming happier than he did a moment ago without changing a single feature on his face. "All right. I'll hang around until it's closing time, and then maybe we could go somewhere private?"

Joe's fingers unclench from their death grip on the dishcloth. "Sure. I live above the pub. We could go there."

Arthur nods; then, hand shaking ever so slightly, he takes his drink and stands up, looking around. Joe watches him as he takes in the pub, the scattered tables and stools around them, the few cozy booths along the far wall. Then his eyes fall on the piano, sitting forlornly in the back when it's not being used for the night, and Joe holds his breath as Arthur's whole body tenses, then shudders loose again.

"May I?" he says, turning to look at Joe; for the first time since he walked in, there's a light in his eyes that isn't calculated or observant, merely excited.

"Be my guest," Joe says helplessly. Because the moment Arthur asks, really asks him for something, Joe realises with a numbing cold that spreads down his spine that he can't, physically cannot tell Arthur no. Even thinking it makes his stomach flip uncomfortably, sends disappointment spiralling through his chest.

Arthur takes him at his word, strolls to the piano, unhurried to everyone who isn't Joe and therefore can't sense his impatience in the bounce of his heels, the fractionally lengthened stride. Arthur sits at the bench, lifts the lid and splays his fingers over the smooth keys, shoulders slumping like a weight has been lifted.

The first strands of music fill the air, something slow and familiar, tugging at Joe's memory like a hook made of finest platinum; it's one of his favourite songs, "Easy Like Sunday Morning", he's always loved the connotations, even if he can't remember why there's a bittersweet tinge to the pleasure of hearing it played so expertly. Arthur looks lost in it, eyes no wider than slits, heavy and languid, mouth relaxed. Joe is suddenly slammed through with an almost insurmountable desire to _kiss him_ , slow yet hard, meaning it. Okay, so he's safe to assume that this Arthur is quite a lot more than an acquaintance of his. He suspected it before, but now here's tangible proof that their relationship, whatever it turns out to be, at least exists.

Closing time is an absolute trial. Joe can barely concentrate enough to run the tabs on his clients, let alone cash out the till. In the end, he prints out the read and shoves it in with the cash, takes it to the back office and locks it in the safe, to be dealt with tomorrow. It's one of the perks of being one's own boss. When he's done collecting all the glasses and throwing out the empties, it's well past midnight, and Arthur is _still playing_ , slow bluesy numbers and fast swing pieces, filling the pub with a constant soothing hum. Finished at last, Joe walks to him, stands close but not close enough to disturb him, and watches Arthur's long, elegant fingers run over the ivory keys to extract crystal-clear notes.

After a little while Arthur's head comes up and he fixes Joe with a look that Joe can't quite decipher. It's--not scared, exactly, but there is certainly trepidation in Arthur's face, in the tightness around the eyes.

"You ready?" Arthur asks him neutrally.

"I am. Let's go."

He leads the way to the door hidden behind the bar and down the dimly-lit corridor leading to the back of the pub. The stairs up to the flat are not quite as narrow as to limit movement, but the curve is tight enough that it demands attention while navigating. They open to a large room, spacious and airy, hardly any furniture besides a couple of chests of drawers and several large bookcases hogging most of the walls of the flat. On the far end of the room there's a cluster of seats, a sofa, two soft-looking armchairs, a coffee table. Joe waves Arthur over, making a detour through the kitchenette.

"Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"

"Scotch is good, if you have it."

"Please, you're talking to a pub landlord. Of course I have it."

Joe ferrets out the bottle from behind the cereal in the top cupboard, snags two glasses, hesitates before forgoing the ice in deference to the instructions from earlier. It's the good stuff, too, a half-full bottle of Scapa that he'd won at poker about six months back, before he'd given it up for good after nearly losing everything again. Arthur takes the proffered glass, sips. He's clearly stalling, and even though Joe is not a patient man, he's willing to wait, for him.

"Your name is Joseph Eames," Arthur says at last, making Joe start a little. "You're thirty-four years old, born 15th September, 1977. You are what we in the dreamsharing business call a Forger."

Joe blinks, trying to absorb the facts. Dreamsharing? He'd laugh, if only it didn't sound so naggingly familiar.

"Am I any good?" he asks lightly. It doesn't lift the mood like he'd hoped. Arthur stares at him, that odd emotion in his eyes again.

"The best," he says quietly. Joe can hear the honesty in his voice. "You invented the job. No one could do what you could for years, before a few people got the hang of it."

"Wow," Joe says, pleased even if he can't really claim the credit, not until he can-- "Can I get my memory back, then?"

Arthur's eyes pinch a little; his mouth tightens into a flat line. "I have no idea," he says, looking Joe straight in the eye. "No one has ever done what you seem to have managed to do."

"Which is?"

Arthur sighs wearily, taking a large swallow of his drink. "Okay. You want the whole story? Last chance to back out."

Joe pauses to think it over, for all of half a second. "Tell me."

Arthur leans back, bracing his elbows on the arms of the chair he'd sunk into while Joe was fetching the booze. "All right. It would be good if you could just listen for a bit without interrupting. Then I'll answer all your questions."

"Fair enough. My lips are sealed."

Arthur's mouth twitches, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he launches into a world of intrigue, of espionage and conning, of taking what isn't theirs and stealing the rest when they could. Of science as complex as the end result is simple, of skill beyond his imagination. Of people who can manipulate reality itself within a dream, who can turn into people they aren't, who can make the mark believe anything and everything. The very concept of inception is remarkable; to learn that they have achieved it is almost beyond belief.

Arthur pauses after a while, swallowing uncomfortably, avoiding Joe's eyes for the first time since he started talking. Joe's pretty sure he can work out why.

"You're about to tell me what happened to me, yes?"

Arthur nods, taking another swift drink. "I would ask you to reserve judgement until after I've told you the whole of it, but you're quite within your right to be pissed, so I won't bother." A deep inhale. Arthur is obviously bracing himself for something. Joe wonders what it could possibly be, that it has this man, who has seen impossible things and then some, run almost scared.

"Some years ago, after the thing with Mal happened, you asked me to work a job with you. We'd worked together before, of course, but never just the two of us. What you were planning was--risky, almost suicidally so. I said no. We'd just lost Mal to the fall-out from her and Dom's time in Limbo, and I was worried. I didn't think I'd fare any better, and, to be honest, I didn't trust you to swing it. Not back then. I just didn't think you were good enough to make it work."

Pause again. There's apology in Arthur's eyes, but it's almost buried by some other emotion, so strong as to twist his entire face. Joe realises with a nauseating rush that it's an overwhelming mixture of guilt and regret. He opens his mouth, but before he could even begin to imagine what to say to that, Arthur rolls right over him.

"You were pissed, quite vocally so. We had an argument, and after that I didn't see you for almost three years. Then came inception, and the you I saw then was not the you I'd refused to work with. You were -- I don't know what you did in those years we didn't hear from you, but you were. Uh. Smarter, in terms of work, of balancing the risks, of knowing what we could get away with. It was like that edge you had had gone from serrated to cut-throat. You never mentioned that job again, though, so I just assumed you'd given up on it. In hindsight, it's possible that you still bore a grudge. I wouldn't have blamed you, but I wasn't going to apologise for having a self-preservation instinct, either.

"Anyway, long story short, you hadn't given up on the job. After we split once inception was over, you dropped off the radar again. I started looking for you seven months ago, when I was offered a job we could have used you for. That was the first time we knew that you'd gone missing. Eventually we tracked down a Simon Phelps, who probably means nothing to you now, and he told us that the job had gone south, and they'd." Arthur's fists clench violently, knuckles going white around the same time his voice gives out. He looks so furious that Joe wonders for a moment if he's let a madman into his house -- but then again, by the sound of it, he was one, too, so it was the old pot and kettle scenario.

Arthur clears his throat, and Joe watches his hands uncurl again with a slight tremor, like it's costing Arthur something to calm down.

"He told us that your point man had fucked up, and the mark was militarised. Only this time there wasn't anyone down there to give you a second kick. They all panicked when you died inside the dream, because you were using a sedative that hadn't been tested properly. You fell into Limbo. Once the rest of your team woke up, they dropped you off at a hospital and split."

Joe digests this in silence, wanting to be angry but not quite able to gear up to speed, not when Arthur is sitting there scowling at the floor, biting the inside of his lower lip so hard Joe expects to see blood at any moment. Then he has a thought.

"Wait, so you said once someone has been heavily sedated and dies in the dream, drops into Limbo without specifically meaning to, that's it. They don’t know where they are, they don’t know they’re dreaming, and by the time sedative wears off and they wake up, their brain is so much scrambled eggs."

"Theoretically, yes. That's what has always happened, in our experience. But theory has never been particularly applicable where you're concerned," Arthur says ruefully, relaxing little by little the more time passes without Joe exploding.

Joe wonders why Arthur expects him to. Yes, he's angry, but by the sound of it, he could have done his homework better. For a start, he should have asked Arthur to work with him again. He doesn't know much, but he can read between the lines just fine, and from what Arthur's telling him Arthur is the best in the business. Joe thinks his old self a fool for letting anything stop him from going after the best.

Arthur shoots him a quick, careful look from under his eyelashes; his eyes look dark, the effect compounded by the bruised skin underneath. And it hits Joe like a ton of bricks -- Arthur has been nearly killing himself all this time, trying to find him, to--make amends? He thinks--he must think that--

"You think this is your fault?"

Arthur looks startled, shifts in his seat a little, straightens his spine. His elbows tuck themselves along his body, and so does his chin, lowering to protect his throat, like he's preparing himself for a fight. It's all the confirmation Joe needs.

"Look, I don't know what else happened between us, and don't try to deny it because I _know_ something did, but from what you've been telling me, there's nothing here that is your fault."

Arthur blinks at him, eyes so wide the whites are showing around his iris. "Yes, there--"

"No, Arthur. It's obvious that I should have known better. If you want to stay alive, you work with the best. And that would be you, wouldn't it?"

Arthur's eyes fall to the floor again, and there it is, guilt on every single expressive feature. "I was an asshole to you, though. I made you think that I--that I still thought you--and if I hadn't, you might have asked again, and we wouldn't be here, and you wouldn't be missing most of your memory."

Joe considers this, weighs it against what he does have, here, now -- a chance. A chance is all he ever needed, and he doesn't know much about his old self, but his new self is not an idiot, thanks.

His knees hit the floor by Arthur's chair; Joe tips his chin up with a finger, ducking his head to meet Arthur's eyes. Arthur stares at him, defiant yet so achingly vulnerable that something inside Joe clenches and threatens to shatter.

"Arthur. You have to let it go. You found me again, yeah? And I'm hale, and more-or-less whole. And I don't remember why I should be pissed at you, but something tells me that even if I did, I still wouldn't be."

It's his turn to pause, to watch Arthur watch him cautiously, face no longer quite so desperately remorseful. God, he's about to do something stupid, he just knows it, but he has this whole new life opening before him, that Arthur has tracked him down through Christ-knows-what to give him. And let's face it -- turns out he's always been a risk-taker.

He leans in slowly, giving Arthur a chance to dodge him, or push him away if he wanted to. Arthur doesn't move. In fact, he appears to have stopped breathing altogether, holding himself still and trembling ever so faintly. This man has faced down gunmen, death, oblivion, but right now it's Joe's touch that's making him fall apart. And if that isn't the most potent aphrodisiac in the world, Joe doesn't know what is.

He touches Arthur's lips softly, tentative like he never is with his lovers, gentle and questioning, thumb stroking against the side of Arthur's jaw. Arthur makes a strangled sound, a sob caught on an exhale, and surges forward, pressing as close as Joe will let him -- and Joe will let him plenty close, all right. He feels Arthur's hands stroke along his biceps, over tattoos that Joe hasn't the faintest what they're supposed to mean to him, trail up his shoulders to curve against the back of his neck, no longer slow or gentle. The kiss turns rough, tongues flicking and teeth clashing, a lip getting caught in the carnage to spill droplets of blood into both their mouths. Neither seems to care; Arthur shoves his body forward, climbing over Joe until Joe's back is hitting the floor and he has a lap-full of Arthur who, not content with that, curls forward until his chest is firmly pressed to Joe's.

"Eames," Arthur groans in between biting kisses, fingers burying themselves in Joe's hair, and Joe feels himself shudder all over at the sound of it; it's clear to him now that while 'Joe' is, has always been familiar, comforting, 'Eames' is the only thing he wants to hear fall from Arthur's lips.

Joe digs his fingers into Arthur's back, his sides, down to clutch at Arthur's hips and pull him closer, revelling in Arthur's warm, firm body on top of him, the way Arthur's thighs slide against his, sinuous and tempting, daring Joe to rid them from all unnecessary, constricting fabric that hides Arthur's skin from his gaze.

Joe has never been one to back away from a challenge, and he suspects Eames wasn't either. His hands dig under Arthur's jacket, slide over the soft, gorgeously fitted cotton of his shirt, lingering at the small of his back, pulling him closer even as his fingers impatiently tug the fabric out of Arthur's trousers. The moment when his palm slides over Arthur's bare skin is electric; Joe feels the thrill of it all the way up his arm and down his spine. His fingertips tingle when he traces them up Arthur's back, taut and smooth to the touch, all delicious muscles. Arthur kisses him deeper, harder, hands tangled in Joe's hair, sprawling so their groins are mashed together. He's hard against the top of Joe's thigh; a twist of Arthur's hips lines them up perfectly, and Joe nearly brains himself when he throws his head back against the hard floor. The firm pressure against his cock, even through several layers of clothing -- he can barely stand it.

Arthur's body is familiar on top of his in a way he can't explain; Arthur fits in his arms just right, like the space between them has always been made for him. Joe nips at his lips, flushed and swollen from the roughness of Joe's stubbled jaw.

"Did we ever--?" he pants, squeezing around a handful of perfect arse.

"What, this?" Arthur asks, voice gone hoarse and dark with need. "No. But I wanted to. God, how I wanted to, even before you disappeared off the face of the earth. I just didn't think you'd ever--you never gave me any indication that this would be welcome."

"I never--Christ, I must have been an idiot. But this feels, it's familiar somehow."

Arthur, inexplicably, flushes deeper. Joe hasn't done anything different in the last ten seconds, so he stops and raises a questioning eyebrow.

"One time we had to hide from projections in a mark's dream. And we, uh, I pressed you into a wall and we made out to get them off our backs."

Joe stops to digest this, noting the way Arthur won't quite meet his eye, and also the twitch of Arthur's cock against his. He starts grinning.

"You liked it that much, eh?"

Arthur frowns, but Joe can tell he doesn't really mean it, although how he can is a mystery to him. Arthur does nothing to deny it; instead he presses closer and kisses Joe again, licks into his mouth, the faint huffs of his exhale brushing against Joe’s cheek. Arthur tastes of fine whiskey, smells delicious, spicy and musky with the hint of vanilla, and it's so vivid in Joe's mind, this sense of knowing this man, thoroughly and undeniably; knowing him deeper than mere words and thoughts, knowing everything about him even if right now he knows nothing at all.

Arthur slides his tongue against his, twists his hips, and Joe instantly forgets what he was thinking. Arthur's hands are just as demanding as his mouth; he tugs Joe's t-shirt up, over his chest, along his arms and off altogether. He touches Joe with a strange mixture of greed and gentleness, everywhere he can reach; he tears his mouth away from Joe's and trails wet lips over his jaw, under it, down the side of his neck. He seems to find a spot he likes, and settles -- sucks gently, grazes his teeth over it, soothing it with his tongue. Joe is nearly incoherent with need; his hips try to buck up, but lean as Arthur is, he's bloody heavy over him, and Joe can only shift into the pressure of Arthur's thighs, groan and beg wordlessly for more.

Then Arthur pauses, eyes burning on Joe’s belt but hands tightly curled in the fabric of the discarded t-shirt, just staring down at Joe’s bared chest, chewing on his lower lip in a manner that seems designed to make Joe give in to temptation and sit up to draw it back out and into his mouth.

“What?” Joe says, ducking his head to look at Arthur’s face. “Something wrong?”

Arthur shakes his head; then pauses and nods a few times. “You—Eames, you don’t know me, you don’t remember anything about us, the history—“

Joe raises a hand, places it on Arthur’s warm, solid chest. “Are you saying you don’t want me if I can’t remember who I was before?” he asks, the sting of rejection coiling into his gut like a shard of ice.

Arthur shakes his head frantically, dropping the t-shirt and reaching down to cup Joe’s face in his hands, fingers stroking his temples, his brow, his hair. “No,” he says adamantly, eyes boring into Joe’s. “No, that’s not it at all. I’m just, Eames, I don’t know that you’d still want me, if you could remember everything.”

Joe digests that in silence, searching Arthur’s wide eyes; and then he smiles, catches one of Arthur’s hands in his, says, “I want you now, Arthur. I can’t tell you what I’d have wanted or not wanted before; I might never know. But you, when I saw you downstairs, the way my body reacted to you, it was like I’d found the piece that had been missing even when I hadn’t even known to look for it. And if you can accept the possibility that I might never get my memories back, but that I know that I want to find out with you by my side, then that’s all that matters here.”

Arthur looks at him for a moment longer, before smiling brilliantly, relief painfully obvious in his face. Then there are fingers over his belt, undoing it neatly and with a speed that pools want into Joe's lower belly. Arthur's fingers are nimble on his fly, flicking buttons open and lowering zips, and before Joe has found his words again Arthur lowers his head, follows the trail of hair down Joe's chest, his stomach, his belly, hot breath searing the skin as Arthur presses open-mouthed kisses into it. His hands find the edge of Joe's boxer briefs and slide under it; and then they're pulling Joe's desperate cock out of its confines and Arthur's lips are sliding right over it, lax and soft against the flushed head, stroking it deliciously yet not nearly enough at the same time.

"Arthur, please," Joe grits out, teeth clenched so hard he thinks they might crack. And then Arthur's mouth is closing over him properly, tight and wet, humming his pleasure against the sensitive skin, tongue glued to the underside of Joe's cock.

Joe's hips come off the floor with a violent jerk, and he already has his mouth open to apologise when he makes sense of Arthur's helpless moan, the way Arthur tilts his head to swallow more of him down, the way Arthur's hands are braced on the floor and aren't even pretending to hold Joe’s hips down. He tries again, much more careful this time, and is rewarded with Arthur's laboured exhale over the base of his cock, mouth sliding down his length to take him in as far as he'll go. Arthur looks up then, dark, dark eyes watching him through Arthur's long lashes. An eloquent eyebrow is raised. Joe grins; he's not stupid. He gets the message.

He starts fucking up into that mouth, long and slow, all the way out and all the way in, and Arthur takes it all, closes his eyes and relaxes his throat and allows Joe to slip inside, muscles fluttering over the head when Joe lingers too long. He can barely stand it, this gorgeous, clever, deadly man on his knees for him, taking everything Joe will give him. There's a firm, sliding pressure over his knee, and when Joe gathers the wits to look, he groans when he sees Arthur's hips flex, rubbing himself against him. Joe bends his leg a little higher; the next thrust almost hurts, it's so hard. It's just too much, the heat, the suction, the feel of Arthur bringing himself off just from having Joe's cock in his mouth; and then Arthur's throat is closing on him, swallowing again and again, and Joe just lets it all go, gives Arthur what he obviously wants, spills himself into his mouth and down that hungry throat.

He's panting hard when he's done, slumped down and spread-eagled over the floor, Arthur's heavy weight on top of him, hips still pumping helplessly.

"Please," Arthur sobs into Joe's neck, obviously too far gone for more. Joe worms a hand between them, flicks the button on Arthur's beautifully tailored slacks undone, thumbs the zip down until he can get at Arthur's cock, still enclosed in his pants. Arthur whimpers, jerking; Joe finds the opening, slides his fingers inside and squeezes the head, milks it with sharp twists of his hand. Arthur moans high and desperate, pushing down into Joe's hand as fast as he can; then stills, shuddering. Joe is achingly aware of warm wetness against his fingers, soaking into the already damp cotton.

"Fuck," Arthur pants, kissing Joe's neck sloppily as Joe wipes his fingers on the ruined slacks and withdraws, only to place his hand on the small of Arthur's back, keeping him in place, legs intertwined.

"Yeah," he says, breath no longer as thready as it was a moment ago. "I'm so glad I'll remember this."

"Well, if you're worried you might forget, we'll probably want to do something to reinforce the memory," Arthur drawls, which is when Joe realises he has a little minx on his hands.

"I'm all up for that," he says, though sadly it'll be a little while before he lives up to his promise. "D'you think we might make it to my bed if we try really, really hard?"

"Probably." Arthur shifts over him, nose scrunching at the mess that is likely drying stickily all over his groin. "Let's find out."

They push and pull each other to standing, propping each other up. "Which way?" Arthur wants to know.

Joe waves a careless hand behind him, to the door that leads to the bedroom; he's much more interested in divesting Arthur of all his pesky clothing. Arthur grumbles a little, but surrenders gracefully. Naked, they pad into the adjoining room and fall into bed, shifting until they're pressed firmly against each other with barely an inch between them.

"Just a little power nap," Joe says drowsily. Arthur yawns and nods against his chest. Joe just about has the strength to pull the quilt over them before they drift off.

\---

 _Nineteen hours later_

"You sure about this?" Arthur asks as he lifts a long, thin cannula and presses the tip to Joe’s--no, _Eames'_ skin, just over the vein in his wrist. "You know there's no rush, right?"

"I know," Eames nods, but he hasn't changed his mind. Either he'll get it all back, or he won't; there's only one way to find out, really. And he's never been much for waiting. "Do it."

Arthur hesitates, but slides the needle inside, neatly tapping the vein. It's almost painless, a small sting that brings with it a spike of adrenaline, of anticipation. Even if he doubted Arthur before, this would have more than convinced him. He watches Arthur swipe a disinfectant-soaked cotton ball over his wrist before securing his own cannula.

"Ready?" Arthur asks, finger hovering over the button in the centre of the strange yet hauntingly familiar device.

"Ready."

Arthur pushes the button. Eames closes his eyes--and the world explodes with possibilities.

 

\-----


End file.
